More or Less: A Series of Erratic Ideas
by SamuraiCat1019
Summary: For my first and only LXG loves, Skinner and Jekyll. A series of interwoven shorts based on the troubles of friendship and romance. Rated for future chapters. Warning: Slash
1. Introduction

**Title: **More or Less: A Series of Erratic Ideas  
**Pairing: **Skinner/Jekyll eventually, or never maybe… ANGST!  
**A/N: **This is basically my half-assed lazy attempt at getting my 100 Themes Challenge list going. Other than that, it's because I'm desperate for some J/S slash! Hope you like it. If you don't, I'll eat a baby. Alive…protect the children.

1. **Introduction**

He steps down from the balcony, cool and calm as always, stopping just before our chests meet. I've seen this before; I've seen him with those eyes like that before, but never has he been staring at me with them, all fire and ice and fear and curiosity swirling in black pupils.

He steps back just enough not to hear the breath that rushes into my lungs to keep me standing. The tension is too much. I can feel my blood, pulsing up from my arms into my neck and down my shoulders again. I am positive he can hear it pushing through my veins.

His lips are wet, just barely. He is in need of a shave soon says the reddish tint dabbed along his jaw. Why are my hands shaking? Up close I realized how defined his cheekbones are, as high as a woman's, but with a sharp definition unlike I've ever seen, carved under his eyes. He blinks, twice. A pink tongue darts out exposed before he works his lips to form a sentence, but which lose confidence and seal again. I cannot move. In the back of my mind, I know, ironically, I would be far more comfortable watching those lips if I were naked.

Finally, after what feels like hours, seconds, he leans back fidgeting with his jacket cuff as he is prone to and gives a half smile, altogether confused.

"Mr. Skinner?" a rich baritone that makes my head light and my shoes lead. His eyes are on me again.

"Hnm?" the weak reply that is all I can muster.

"The door?"

I finger behind me, feeling the cold steel that leads back into the belly of the Nautilus, back to the long halls, back to his room full of vials and parchment and suffering.

"Oh, right, s'rry mate." I turn and push open the hull door, which strains and groans my curses for me. He goes through, smiling and nodding in thanks, or even discomfort, I don't know. I am always watching him leave.


	2. Memory

2. Memory

The first time we touched, well, really touched that is to say, to be fully aware of it and focused on the feeling, was by pure accident.

It was well lit in the ship, and I had just finished searching Nemo's extensive library - how that man has so many books in this vessel and still finds other things to do is beyond me - and was walking back to my cabin. Nothing was relatively out of the ordinary, to say. Edward was scowling away at me for being such a 'dandy', as I'll call it politely, for departing after Ms. Harker arrived in the room.

'You're a bloody poof, Henry, you know that.' he growled. 'Try riling her up a bit, or better yet, just let me out and I'll show the smarmy little tail how to use that-'

"Edward, stop it!" I nearly yelled, pinching between my eyes where the throbbing stab of a headache was forming. I started moving faster, eager to get into my cabin where I could be yelled at in private. It was this, I now understand, that caused the whole incident.

One more left turn and I was free, but as I rounded the corner I didn't have time to stop before I collided with another hurried passenger. We struck, two forces oblivious to each other before now coming into annoying awareness, and I let out a yelp along with my companion. The angle and the speed were too much, and I was sent sprawling on the floor, arms and legs spread out at odd angles, staring at the Nautilus's cream ceiling.

Edward's screech of 'What the hell!' was the first thing I heard over the pounding in my ears. But before I saw a face, someone was softly asking if I was alright. I looked lower, finding the brown leathery sheen of a familiar duster suspended next to my flopped-out right arm.

"Skinner?" I groaned out angrily. "Aren't you supposed to be dressed!"

"I am!" he protested, his usual amusement clearly heard, as the arms of his coat gestured down his invisible torso. The blood pounded through my skull and I squeezed my eyes shut of the light to ward of the nausea gathering at the back of my throat.

"You alright, Jekyll?" his question was concerned, and I felt the rustle of leather on my forearm as he leaned closer.

"Fine." I muttered. I blinked, realizing how ridiculous I must look, spread out across the floor with no intention to do anything about it. Trying to breathe through my nose, I shifted to my elbows, wary of the pops and snaps that my legs made as they moved to rise. A light pressure along my shoulders and back steadied me as I struggled forward.

"Lemme help ya up, mate. I's the least I can do." He offered an arm and I gladly grasped it, surprised when I was tugged forward, suddenly vertical. My head felt light and dizzy, and I knew somewhere that I would be meeting the floor soon again as I swayed backward, in full view of the invisible man only clad in coat and pants . A small string of curses were let out before I was gripped and pulled back from my descent.

I could not remember the last time I had been that close to anyone - in my right mind that is - but I do remember thinking it was not such a bad thing. I had always thought Skinner would be cold, never wearing much in the chilly hull of the ship, and was surprised as my face was pressed into his shoulder, his arms wrapped protective around my back. His chest was warm, impossibly warm, penetrating my coat and vest and shirt all the way to my skin, our sternums in full contact. I felt the smoothness of his ear, and the textured neck from a lifetime of rough days and cold nights against my cheek. The muscles and tendons of his arm rippled and stretched under the side of my face. Strong arms were still tight around me, and it felt safe, my hands dangling limp by my sides. I was fixed in time, listening to his confused rush of breath. It was…comfortable.

He cleared his throat, arms going flaccid around me after a light pat, and I frowned at the loss of contact and the new awareness of our predicament.

"Well then," Skinner sighed, "let's go 'bout not runnin' around half-clothed again, shall we? I'll keep my dress on an keep you standin', mate." There it was again, a lightness in his voice, but this time it seemed to be a front.

Dumbly, I nodded as he gave another quick pat and stepped past me, his bare feet padding away. I stared down the corridor, drawing a blank as to what I was doing before his embrace.

'Tisk, tisk, Henry. Now I see where your drawers are pointing. Looks like I'm gonna have to be the one to satisfy Mina, seeing as your just lookin' for another filthy-'

"Shut it, Edward." I mumbled half-hearted.

I started walking forward again, working the buttons of my vest, at a loss for why I was still so lightheaded and why my heart was beating that fast.


	3. Rain

3. Rain

Rain was never a good sign when the Nautilus was decked. Normally, the crashing and twisting of a storm was no trouble to the mighty submerging ship, but it was a ship none the less, and it did have to surface, unfortunately when the waves were the most unyielding. Nemo wasn't happy about it, but there was nothing that could be done when his ship was in bad need of repair and the next discreet place available was far off course. So for now, the crew and occupants of the Nautilus were on solid ground while the ship was fixed, leaving the remaining members of the League on soggy, cold, unpaved earth.

Dr. Jekyll stood under a thick black umbrella observing the crew scurry around the hull and onto land, retrieving parts and yelling commands in a foreign tongue over the roar of water. Nemo paced around with them, looking slightly like a mother hen despite his rough beard and sharp eyes.

Jekyll's hair was plastered back against his forehead in the damp air. On his right was Ms. Harker under a similar umbrella carried by Sawyer, who looked about as chivalrous and proud as could be. The pair gazed at the commotion with Jekyll, more aware of each other than the rain.

"I don't see why we couldn't have just stayed on board," mumbled Sawyer, his remaining hand tucked under his arm for warmth. "Seems like a lot more trouble to be out here."

Jekyll glanced at the couple under the umbrella, noting Mina's mouth pursed in annoyance .

"As I recall, Mr. Sawyer," she replied coolly. "Nemo wasn't the one who wanted us out here." Tom looked at her dumbly. "I said fresh air and some solid earth would do us good, and you felt obligated to escort me. Thank you for the company, but I think I should get that air I need." and with that, she turned on her heels and stalked off as best as anyone could in two-inch mud, Sawyer fumbling behind her moments later with the umbrella, calling out reproachfully.

Jekyll chuckled. That boy perusing that woman was a futile cause, but he played it amicably. Foolishly, but still amicable. He pulled the umbrella closer to himself, blocking the sudden change in wind and water.

"Just like home, eh 'enry?" Skinner was heard before seen, as is naturally the case, but he was covered to his feet this time. He made a soft squish as he approached, white face and dark pince-nez sticking out against the gray world. He smiled his crooked smile and took position beside Jekyll, tilting his head back, the water streaking the grease paint from his face, leaving translucent ridges.

"Though I can't say London's very nice place to be, it rainin' like this all the bloody time. But here, at least there's a warm bed to run back to." the invisible man said, still facing the sky. 'He'll catch a chill like that,' the doctor in him sang. Jekyll took the few steps towards Skinner, stopping the onslaught of drops to the man's pale face with the umbrella. Skinner frowned confused, then stood straight again and looked at Henry quizzically.

"I doubt Nemo would appreciate you passing the flu to his crew from insisting on being out here." Jekyll sighed. He didn't look at him, but could feel Skinner's mischievous smile find it's place.

"Well then," Skinner said. "move over and let me get warm." With that, he snaked his hand around Jekyll's arm holding the umbrella to his chest. Their limbs locked, he pressed against Henry's side, a meeting of damp warm bodies. They kept still in compatible silence, joined together, watching the ship and Indians sway in the storm.

Jekyll felt languid and content, intoxicated on the smell of rain and the awareness of Skinner's warmth next to him. Skinner smiled sweetly as Henry fought to keep his eyes open, his chin traveling south. Skinner tsked softly before removing his hand and wrapping both his arms around the taller man, encompassing the umbrella handle and Jekyll's hand in his, caressing a gloved finger over the pale skin. Henry's head changed direction, falling back onto a leather clad shoulder, and let out a soft pleased moan. Skinner chuckled and rested his chin against Henry's shoulder, squeezing him closer.

The rain was really a lovely thing when you had something warm to come back to.


	4. Triangle

4. Triangle

"Wot is it?"

"It's a prism. It's used for studying light."

Skinner balanced the glass triangle on one of its points as Jekyll was finishing his notes a few feet away.

"Awful lot of fuss for a paper weight." he said, closing his fingers around it, inspecting the object as it appeared to float in mid air inside his clear skin. Jekyll didn't look up from his papers but sighed wearily.

"It's science."

Skinner swiveled his head to peer at the doctor, taking in his tired eyes and carefully placing the prism back onto the desk, before padding over on bare feet to him. He stood by his shoulder, glancing down at Henry's loopy script then back up at his auburn hair. The man didn't move until finishing his sentence and poignantly laying his pen flat on the drying ink, sighing again and drowsily lifting his head in the general direction of the invisible presence. A warm smile spread across Skinner's face and into his eyes, though he was the only one who knew.

"I could tell you Nemo's a woman, and you'd say the same thing." Jekyll's eyes softened, his lips curving slightly as he caught the mirth in the other man's tease.

"I believe it comes with the title." came his playful reply.

Footsteps traveled to the desk again and the prism was levitated and brought back to Henry, hanging between him and the invisible body kneeling before him. The glass was slowly pushed forward until it brushed Jekyll's lips, the point delicately grazing the skin with its cool tip. It smoothed from one corner of his mouth to the other, flat glass sending light shivers down his spine. The cold surface was replaced by the warmth of Skinner's wet mouth, sending an altogether different sensation pooling in his abdomen. Skinner pulled back and rested his forehead against Jekyll's reaching up to kiss the tip of his nose and returning with a content sigh.

"I think you ought to quit then, mate."

Jekyll let out a bark of a laugh and abandoned his papers to the floor, pulling the man forward until their lips found each other again.


	5. Silence

5. Silence

There are times when we have to speak. We have to make a noise; a sound in the quiet to remind ourselves of the danger. Because silence can be extremely dangerous. Like a panther stilling the world around it as its prey lays unwary of the threat. We together are in panic. We must be.

It can be as simple as breathing a little faster, or rustling the carpet underneath bare feet, even the brush of fingers against fabric is enough to quell the fear. A moan so soft it sounds like a prayer. His lips will part, and he will release a drawn, shuddering sigh. I wonder if he ever really is trapped in silence. He is different than us, than them, than me. Does he will the voice away? Is it possible? For someone who rarely makes a noise as he, I often believe he isn't quiet at all.

But then again, there are times when we cannot shatter the calm with sound. These are the most beautiful; the times when I know he sees me in front of him, with those clear blue eyes that drain away the sadness of my heart yet leave me weeping. Though he can't know it. I will never make him questing this, because after finding him, I cannot bear to lose him.

So we stay here, in one room or another; often sitting; sometimes standing when either of us is too ignited to wait, or in the most alarming and exciting times we lay together, the force between us crackling like electricity. Sometimes, he will let his walls down and close his eyes and acknowledge me, us, this, as I run my fingers over his pale face. That way, I know he sees me. He sees me in the darkness with his hands and his skin and his mouth. And that is how we can be.

It makes up for far more than I can say. It will kill us if we aren't careful, but we can release it in another way entirely; one I had never imagined. He who speaks only to himself, and I who cannot stop. We are bound by the same medium. The silence between us, hovering in the room, closing around us, that is how we can be.


	6. Testament

6. Testament

Henry was soft. He was always soft when he came. Quiet footsteps outside the door; the hesitant moment of decision to nock or turn around and hope I haven't heard. More often than not, the good doctor in you will win out (or perhaps the beasts screaming into your abused head) and I let out a disappointed sigh as the gentle Morse code of your flat shoes escapes down the hall.

But then, there are the time when that pregnant pause rewards me with equally quite taps on the door -- always two, Henry, always ready to be turned down -- and I cannot take my time walking to the door before I fling it open, meeting an anxious doctor. He comes, sometimes flushed, his eyes glowing a fire so intense I was startled when I first saw it; it's look so foreign on those habitually tense features. Other times, though -- these times I want to drop to my knees and take his hands, those kind hands, and cry out how undeserving I am of him to look so fretful of me -- he will come, face pale and damp with sweat, circles under his wide eyes, lips pressed into a fine line, looking like he was expecting to get the door slammed in his face.

Of course, his fear is always unnecessary and I let him in by swinging the door wider, indicating I am in no danger of getting my toes trodden on by him. He comes forward -- five steps, Henry, not to far to run back friend?-- and gives the room a discrete inspection. He knows I took the mirror down the day he asked -- the minute in fact -- but he cannot help but be wary. I wouldn't want any monsters scowling back at me either, Henry, I don't know how you shave…

We're slow at first, taking tea or one of Nemo's sea confections that are left outside the rooms in the morning to munch on. Our charade Henry; neither of us has come here with that purpose. A nervous tic, his knee bounces discreetly under his crossed legs. Sometimes it rests within a few minutes of pleasant talk. On days when he greets me with a pallid face and sweaty hand, it takes longer to soothe this telling creature into stillness. His tired face loses it's apprehension and his long fingers trace slow paths along each other. It is not until then I dare touch him.

He comes to his feet, stretching out those lean legs to their full height. I peel away the thick layers of clothing keeping me from my destination and watch them slide to the floor, his eyes closed and dry lips parted. At long last, I touch bare skin, the contact of warm flesh coaxing a guttural moan from those lips. We come together gently on the bed, never daring to let go, to let it all be a dream as we twist and thrust and gasp. He takes me in those lovely soft fingers and guides me to him, lets me touch him, lets me have him. Sweat slicks his exposed flesh, cries so silent I lean in to hear them, and everything builds and builds and I cannot keep trying to hold onto this dizzying peak, and finally I slip and carry him with me over the edge until we are spent, lying in a boneless, sedate heap onto the forgiving mattress.


	7. Misfortune

7. Misfortune

Tom flipped his sad pair of fours onto the crate in front of him.

"I'm done." he proclaimed miserably. The Indian across from him smiled as he pulled the small fortune piled in the center towards him.

"The house always wins, my friend." said the olive skinned man to his right, one foot resting on a corner of their makeshift card table. "And we've been here longer than you."

"I am never playing with you guys again." Sawyer pressed the palms of his hands onto his eyelids and groaned.

"That's what you said last time." came the reply from the bearded man on his left. Tom frowned and slumped forward onto the crate.

The three crew members laughed good naturedly and patted the dishearten spy. When he shrugged them off, the laughter became louder and even more cheerful. Soon, the American's shoulders began to shake too and he sat up, grinning and shaking his head.

Tom rubbed a hand through his sandy hair and locked both behind his head.

"I don't suppose you take promise notes until I get more cash, do you?" The man in front of him laughed.

"No, but those pants must be worth something." Tom's face fell horrified, and the table erupted again. He shoved one of the sailors lightly when he realized the joke, but remained red until a soft tap on the metal walls came from behind him.

Jekyll poked his head around the doorway into the large storage room and smiled his shy smile.

"Good evening, gentlemen." The Indians nodded pleasantly at him and finished dealing another round. Tom turned to the doctor and smiled.

"Hey, Jekyll. What's up?" The doctor scooted further into view and rested a hand on the metal frame. His pale eyes were worried.

"Actually, I was wondering if any of you had seen Mr. Skinner, perhaps?"

"Not much to be seen, doctor." chuckled the bearded man, extending his arm out behind him as if searching. The group grinned back at Jekyll who softened slightly under the humor.

"Nope, sorry. I'll tell him you're looking for him if he comes by, though." Tom offered, rubbing the weak stubble on his chin.

"Thank you, Mr. Sawyer. I would appreciate if you would." Jekyll tipped his head and turned to leave.

"Wait! What's it you needed him for, anyway?"

Jekyll peered back into the room at Tom, bewildered. Tom mentally winced at his obvious meddling and curved the corner of his mouth in apology.

"If that's not too much to ask." He rested his elbows atop his knees and stared curiously at the doctor, who seemed to question disclosing anything or not, then finally sighed.

"Well…" Jekyll studied the door frame. "Mr. Skinner and I had a bit of an argument yesterday and I have yet to see him today. I am just worried that," the doctor gazed at his shoes and fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket, "well, I'm not exactly sure what I'm worried about."

Tom grinned at the doctor. "Ahh, you know Skinner. He'll come around, don't worry about him." Jekyll glanced up at him and gave an unconvinced smile.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. Thank you, Mr. Sawyer." With that he made his quiet leave. Tom turned back to face his card partners, new cards already being exchanged.

"Wonder what that's about." Tom mumbled. The bearded sailor sorted his cards stony-faced.

"Lover's quarrel." he replied. Tom didn't stop sputtering until the infectious laughter circled the table.


	8. Cold

8. Cold 

It was the same as before, but different. So different. Something palpable hung in the air between them. It was a barrier, the polite smiles and even politer words. Their glances never met in conversation with the members of the league; both made sure not to chance to catch the other's eye. Skinner more frequently wandered about without any visible indication of his presence save a draft in the still air. Jekyll kept to his rooms mostly, devouring novel after textbook, coming out for only necessary face-time with the concerned American boy, having meals taken back to his room at all possible occasions. A few days of after-anger had left them distanced. But this distance had morphed over the fourth and fifth and seventh day of their avoidance spell. The rift between them was like a six-inch steel wall.

It was neither and both of their faults, stubbornness in the invisible man and hopelessness in the doctor ripping at the delicate seams of their connection forged in loneliness and strengthened in affection. The seeds of doubt for their 'relationship' that had been hibernating in the heat of their blatant desire to prevail, for these feelings to have some long-standing substance, had suddenly burst forth, growing and flowering until it covered the landscape of their wary hearts.

Jekyll's habits had returned. The ease that he had melted into under Skinner's soft tongue and light words had crumbled, his jittery movements and thoughts returning with the roar of Hyde. His flitting eyes, pulling on his cuffs, thumbing his watch chain, all ebbed back into his subconscious routine. He took more time preparing himself each morning, layers of fabric stacking over his gaunt frame with old anxieties of keeping the world out. Yesterday, what felt like months, he would languidly wake and slip into his shirtsleeves, sometimes neglecting his tie or coat, half in distracted thoughts and anticipation for the same wandering hands that awaited him each day. But it hurt now, physically ached when he pulled on his trousers and socks and tight leather shoes. The nightmares had returned as well, the most unsettling of reoccurrences. Even Ms. Harker had noted the gray circles under his eyes when he ventured out to breakfast. He smiled politely and dismissed it, eyes flickering towards the spot the invisible man frequented across from him. Anxiety crept up in his throat again with Hyde's abusive rants about his 'weakness' and 'vermin choice of tail'. Sometimes, he would lie awake on his mattress staring at the ceiling, trying to recall the goodness in him before Skinner, that man he was having relations- had relations, friend companion sort. Only most nights, he'd come out of a haze of utter dejection with nothing to show of it but bloodshot eyes and a headache. Hyde would growl, "A week, a bloody week away from that _man_ and you completely fall apart. You're worthless." But what disturbed Jekyll the most, was that he was agreeing with him, more and more.

For all his naked wanderings, Skinner was listless in the daytime. He had gotten into more trouble for walking around places he shouldn't be in in a week than he had for all his time on the Nautilus. He had tried engaging the boy, but Sawyer was too young and too well raised to understand that his country past was not the most entertaining thing to be discussed for hours on end. Skinner had received the tongue lashing of a lifetime for bumping into one of Nemo's navigation mechanisms when slipping into the wheel-room, avoiding the captain a good two days for the mess he caused. Though Jekyll's quarters were a good walk from his own, Skinner would find himself in his endless roaming coming down his corridor without conscious decision, despite his resignation not to. Of the several times he had, he would swiftly turn back, afraid that door might be too tempting to knock on, as it had been the sixth day of their separation.

The thief had found himself face to face with a thick wooden door that midnight. Caught up in the familiar sight, he barely stopped himself before rapping on the door. But he did stop, enough to regain his composure and step back. The memory of Henry's- Dr. Jekyll's flushed face and sharp eyes prevented him from opening that quite creaking door. His face, the careless puncture wound he had inflicted would not be healed when it fell in dawning realization of his words, nor would the calls after Skinner as he had stalked down these same halls. He was unaware, as he traced his fingers over the grain of the door, sighed shortly, turned and reverted back to his rooms, of the doctor pressed close to his wall on the other side, watching with a sinking stomach as the shadows from underneath his door slowly disappeared.

Their dance around each other had gone relatively unnoticed, only eliciting the questions of Sawyer once, after his meet with Jekyll at his card game. The faint hope that appeared in his eyes when Sawyer mentioned Skinner just as quickly departed when he reported no news. Harker and Nemo were in their own safe, private worlds, not letting anything but the other disturb their respective lives.

On the eighth day, though, there was a change. The outcasts among outcasts had reached the critical point, the teetering high where everything would either take off into the air, or crumble and whimper its way back to the bottom of solitude.

A/n: Cliffhangers are


End file.
